Martial Law (12 page)

“This is going to sound crazy, but there’s nothing to do right now except make calls to the rest of the Loyal Nine. Steven and Katie are in D.C. Brad’s at Fort Devens. The Quinns are at Prescott Peninsula with J.J. and Sabs.”

“What about the generators?”

“We don’t need the generators yet,” replied Sarge. “Tomorrow, we’ll run them for a while to charge batteries and chill the refrigeration units. I want to wait until there’s sufficient road noise to drown out the hum of the units.”

“The weather is very mild for Labor Day weekend. The AC is out of the question. Of course, we have to maintain light discipline at night.” Julia poured water out of the tap into their bottles, which reminded her of the gravity-fed rooftop water tank. “Will you switch the tank tonight or in the morning?”

“Already done. I turned the valves on the way up the stairwell.”

“You’re on top of it, I see.” Julia shrugged. “The apocalypse is boring so far.”

“There are three things we can do before the excitement of the apocalypse picks up tomorrow.”

“Okay, what?” Julia set the water and Triscuits on the counter, eager to help.

“It might be a while, but we should take a good hot shower and get a solid night’s rest.” Sarge came toward her with that
man look
.

“Makes sense. And what is the third thing?”
She already knew
.

“We should probably take advantage of this last opportunity
alone
, if you know what I mean?”

“You’re so full of it, Henry Sargent.” She led him toward the master suite.
No need to turn out the lights as we go
.

Chapter 23

Sunday, September 4, 2016

6:17 a.m.

100 Beacon

Boston, Massachusetts

Sarge was up before sunrise, as always. Julia was sleeping peacefully, and he resisted the urge to give her a wake-up call. Today was going to be an interesting day. He made arrangements with the Winthrops and Peabodys to be ready between seven and eight this morning. The concept of America in a state of collapse was going to be difficult for these families to grasp. They were all wealthy and used to a posh lifestyle. Money or comfort had never been an issue for them. Their world was about to become much smaller, less social, and less complicated. Sarge hoped that would not hinder his dangerous task this week—keeping them safe.

Out of habit, he approached his Keurig machine for his morning fix of a Gevalia Mocha Latte. That wasn’t an option yet. He almost reached for his plan B, a bottled Starbucks Frappuccino out of the refrigerator, and he caught himself.
Don’t let the cold air out.
He stared into the living area in just his pajama bottoms. It was still dark outside. Pitch black. No lights whatsoever except for the flashing red aircraft warning lights atop the skyscrapers. They twinkled like red Christmas lights—there to warn low-flying aircraft that no longer flew.

The reality was setting in for Sarge. This was not a drill, as Donald liked to call them. This was not a minor inconvenience until Eversource Energy got their shit together. Morgan’s words rang in his head:
widespread and long-lasting
. We now lived in the 1800s.

“Sarge, is everything all right?” asked Julia from the bedroom. Sarge walked back that way to get dressed.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m just getting my bearings. I’m trying to get used to the
new normal
.”

“I know what you mean,” said Julia. “When I woke up and you weren’t here, the first thing I did was look at the clock to see what time it was. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he replied. “It was kind of nice to wake up naturally. You know, not rousted out of bed by a screaming alarm clock.”

Julia crawled back under the covers. “It’s still dark outside. There is nothing
natural
about this at all.” Now that she was awake, he was tempted to join her, but today was day one of a different world.

“Stay away from me, temptress. I need to get ready.”

“Boo. Party pooper.” She rolled over. Sarge fumbled his way in the dark to his clothes from last night. Laundry was going to happen less often as well.

As he dressed, he thought about weapons and the perils of going into public. Would a concealed-carry weapon in a paddle holster be sufficient? Should he take a backup strapped to his ankle? Should he wear a full kit and tote an AR-15 everywhere he went? He knew going onto the streets unarmed could get him killed. But carrying an AR down the stairwell to his car this morning might scare the bejesus out of the neighbors and draw unnecessary attention to himself. He decided it was too early for the heavy firepower.

Sarge made his way in the dark and found the hidden compartment behind a wainscot panel. When he popped it open, the inside light illuminated the biometric safe, which contained his sidearm options. He grabbed his favorite Heckler & Koch HK45C. He left the Gemtech suppressor in the vault. If he was forced to use his weapon at this stage of the collapse, he wanted it to send a loud and clear message. He placed the HK45C in an ankle holster and strapped it to his leg. He grabbed his 5.11 tactical belt with his Galcon holster. He inserted an HK45 full-size tactical model and strapped it to his waist. Sarge’s long black tee shirt covered the weapon, but not the bulge. Seasoned law enforcement or military personnel would be able to recognize the telltale signs that he was carrying. Most citizens would not. But Sarge knew he would never leave 100 Beacon without these two weapons—at a minimum. He slipped an extra loaded magazine into each cargo pocket of his pants, and he was good to go.

Before he closed the safe, he picked up Steven’s Glock G38 and his thoughts turned to his brother. He and Katie had a long trip home under normal circumstances. What kind of hurdles would they have to leap to make it in one piece? If anybody could make it, his brother Rambo and his girlfriend Rambette were the ones.

Sarge closed up the safe after retrieving Julia’s sidearm, a matching HK45C. All of the Loyal Nine were issued sidearms in .45 caliber. Donald insisted on interchangeable makes, models, and calibers for all weapons. Sarge liked the HKs, which were lightweight, suppressor ready, and provided the lightest recoil. The low recoil helped the women shoot better and kept everyone on target at the range. Also, the ambidextrous controls on the weapons helped the two lefties in the group.

“Julia, I’ve gotta get going.” Sarge headed back to the bedroom, where she stood inside the door naked.

“You are so sexy when you are all
gunned up
,” she said seductively. He walked up and admired her beauty.

“Bad form, missy. How am I supposed to concentrate on the task at hand when I have this vision of loveliness clouding my brain?”

“This is what you have to come home to, sir. It should be an incentive not to get your ass shot off.”

Sarge closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment as he held her. “I do love you,” he whispered.

She pressed against him. “And I love you, soldier. Come back to me safely—direct orders from headquarters.”

“Roger. I love you.” They kissed, and Sarge headed for the outside and the new normal.

Chapter 24

September 4, 2016

7:11 a.m.

The streets of Boston, Massachusetts

Sarge bounded down the eleven flights of stairs to the basement garage where his vehicles were parked. At this hour, he didn’t encounter any neighbors in the stairwell.
Good. Stay home
.

While it was tempting to drive his Mercedes G-Wagen, he knew the prudent option would be to take the slightly less conspicuous 1968 Toyota OJ40. Most of the Loyal Nine had a bug-out vehicle that was EMP-resistant. The research on the effect an electromagnetic pulse might have on a vehicle was spotty at best. Most of the articles found on the web were based on speculation. In an abundance of caution, Sarge purchased the Brazilian-made Bandeirante model because it had a reliable Mercedes-Benz diesel engine and a lack of electronic-dependent parts. If they were ever forced into the country, farm diesel or comparable biofuels was an option. His OJ40 was the long, hardtop model often used in Africa for sightseeing in the bush. For today, it would make the perfect post-apocalyptic limousine for the Boston Brahmin.

Sarge checked the three security lenses that allowed views of appropriately designated Back Street to the north, and the east side of his building. He unlatched the safety bar and pulled down on the chain, rolling the door overhead. With his hand on his weapon, he quickly walked out onto the inlaid brick driveway to check for threats. It was remarkably quiet except for the sparse traffic on Storrow.
Maybe this will go smoothly after all
.

Sarge pulled out and closed the door behind him. Immediately, he realized he made a mistake by leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine running. Innocent habits or mistakes from before could cause real problems now. He drove around the building and turned southwest onto Beacon. There were a couple of his neighbors standing on the front sidewalk, talking—undoubtedly exchanging theories and opinions. None appeared to have weapons. One appeared to be in his pajamas and robe. Before they could flag him to chitchat, Sarge sped down Beacon. The streets were mostly deserted except for the occasional pedestrians. As he drove the six miles to Chestnut Hill and his first pickup, he wondered how long it would take to spread the word that the power was going to be off indefinitely.
At what point will curiosity turn to aggravation, then to panic, and finally to desperation.

Businesses and residences appeared to be intact until he approached the Harvard Street intersection. The entrance to Trader Joe’s had been demolished by a large box truck. The truck appeared to have backed into the entry to break in but then got stuck. The truck was too tall to fit under the arched brick entryway and got wedged. A Boston police department unit was on the scene.

Sarge thought about how the local grocery stores would deal with their inventories. Without power, they would be unable to conduct sales transactions. Once it became general knowledge that the power was out virtually nationwide, would the stores give the food away? Perhaps donate it to the police for distribution? More importantly, would the good citizens of Boston, or anywhere in America, for that matter, wait on the local grocers to make a decision? Perhaps they would simply help themselves.

He continued down Beacon Street past the Chestnut Hill Reservoir toward Boston College. His students immediately came to mind. Fall classes were supposed to begin on Tuesday, although his lectures started a day later. Every year during Labor Day weekend, students would be returning from their hometowns all over the world. Some might already be here. After ten years, he still felt excited for a new semester. While the subject matter stayed the same, current events would shift, yielding a new twist to each lecture. God, he loved teaching.
He would miss it
.

After turning onto Hammond, he noticed a CVS Pharmacy being guarded by a private security team. No surprise there. He always thought the first business to be looted after the shit hit the fan would be the drug store. The addicts would be looking for drugs, and the preppers would be looking for antibiotics. None of the security guards were armed. Sarge was sure that whoever hired them insisted they not scare the residents or patrons. He doubted they would feel the same way tomorrow, if they even showed up.

Sarge finally reached the Beaver Country Day school that Julia said was across from the entrance to the Peabodys’ home. He resisted the urge to drive the wrong way on the one-way street, opting instead to follow
the rules
. When did
the rule of law
get thrown out the window? There was a lot to contemplate, but for now, Sarge was ready for his first pickup.

Art Peabody was waiting for him alone in the driveway. He was wearing khakis, a black polo shirt, and tennis shoes.
Should he call him Uncle Art
?
Maybe it was too early for that
. Sarge cranked down the window and smiled.

“Hi, Dr. Peabody, I see you’re ready.” Sarge pulled to a stop and shut off the engine. Dr. Peabody opened the door for him.

“Henry Sargent. It has been a long time, but not so long that you shouldn’t remember to call me Art.” He extended his soft surgeon’s hand, and the men shook heartily. He seemed to be in good spirits. From around the hedgerow came Julia’s aunt Stella. She was wearing golf attire.

“Hello, Mrs. Peabody,” greeted Sarge. He attempted to shake her hand but was treated to a hug instead.

“Now listen,” she started. “You will call me Stella, just as Art and I will call you Sarge. We are practically
family
, you know.” Sarge had to think through the Sargent family tree quickly to see if the Peabodys, Hawthornes, and Sargents ever crossed paths.

“She’s right, Sarge,” interjected Dr. Peabody. “Our Julia is very fond of you. You are practically
family
.” Sarge got it. Family—used in the
practically-our-son-in-law
sense of the word. Sarge tried not to seem uncomfortable. Maybe
Uncle Art
was appropriate after all.

“Thank you both, very much. Have you packed a few things?” Sarge didn’t see any luggage or bags.

“Well, we weren’t sure how long we’d be when you called last night, Sarge,” said Mrs. Peabody. She looked down at the ground, appearing to gather courage for the statement. “But then Art received a few random text messages from colleagues around the country who believe this may take months or even years to resolve.”

“Information was spotty last night, Mrs.—Stella,” said Sarge, catching himself. “Julia will know a lot more when we get back to 100 Beacon. If necessary, we might be able to come back and get more things for you.”

“Sarge, thank you,” said Dr. Peabody. “But we are under no illusions here. John has told us repeatedly that you have prepared for this scenario, and we trust you to have our best interests at heart. We will follow your instructions.”